


The Real Malcolm Reed

by Britpacker



Series: Masks [2]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8065030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: Companion piece to "Behind The Mask". Malcolm, on a journey of self-discovery.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
> **Author's notes:** Malcolm's POV, following on from Trip's.

I know the exact moment he slips from drowsing into sleep. His breathing softens; lengthens. This close, the tiny change is about as unobtrusive to my ear as a meteor shower on the hull.

I've never been the afterglow type. Always been, I hope, too courteous for the old _Wham, bam, thank you sir or ma'am_ , but all that post-coital nuzzling and whispering - well, it made me nervous, and discomfort's a proper mood-killer. Most of my relationships, if that's the proper term, have reached their _natural conclusion_ because I've turned all tongue-tied at the crucial moment.

I never knew I could cuddle or coo, yet with Trip Tucker in my bed I've become a natural. I always realised my past lovers didn't know me, but I'm starting to come to a slightly unnerving conclusion. 

Maybe I didn't really know me, either.

I've always been reserved. It's the way Reeds are supposed to be. My parents would drop me at the school gate on the first day of term and drive away without looking back. Other mothers would be sobbing; fathers hugging bewildered little boys. I'd pick up my bag and politely ask the teacher on duty for directions to the relevant dorm. That's what proper officers do, and I was bred to be a proper officer.

I had friends, of course. Binman, the grandson of an Earl; Lofty, who the day we left stood an imposing five foot three in his boots. I was Stinky - the obsessively clean-and-tidy one who scraped the two-week-old chewing gum from the bedframes and used grown-up cologne at formal events. 

Ironic nicknames. An English public-school thing. Trip doesn't understand.

He wouldn't understand what I mean by calling them _friendships_ , either; all that ragging each other, sneaking beer into the gardener's shed during the week and hiding a single bottle each in our kitbags after cross-country running on Friday. I hated cross country running. Pointless exercise.

Trip would've enjoyed it. All that sweaty, athletic camaraderie. He and Archer would go for that.

We're so different. I can barely believe it makes us what we are. Such a perfect match.

Oh God, I'm maundering now. I never knew I could do that, either.

Those schoolboy friendships suited me. They were safe. Superficial. 

Never exposing the core of what Malcolm Reed might be. I suppose that was the pattern of my sexual relationships - they were never really more - too. No matter how satisfying they might be physically, the emotional barrier was always there.

Not a wall, or a barbed-wire fence. More of a membrane; flexible, almost elastic, that sometimes gave a little - with Deborah perhaps, or briefly with Marco - but which never split to allow the true essence of Malcolm Reed to pour out. Deep down, I knew it. So did they.

It's why none of my romances ever had legs. It's tough to give yourself up to someone incapable of giving the same back.

So: why is it so different with him?

I suppose because it _is_ him. Trip Tucker. Force of nature. He didn't so much press against that flimsy protective layer around me as much as tear it apart. And he didn't have to try.

Again; I'm contrary. If he'd tried, I would have resisted. He took my heart without knowing, storming the battlements with sunny smiles and freely offered, uncomplaining friendship. I could have handled the raw, instinctual lust if he hadn't been so bloody _nice_.

Always involving me. Never retreating into offended silence, even when I was deliberately offensive. Yes, he can be brash. In-your-face. As enthusiastic - and about as sensitive - as a Labrador puppy in the park. But he knows it, and he doesn't care what anyone thinks about it.

How can a man stay closed in the face of so much openness? When he turned those wide blue eyes my way and told me he loved me, how could I not respond? 

I'm so glad I did!

He snuffles in his sleep; mumbles my name as he moves, burying his face deeper in the side of my neck. His candid warmth has melted the barrier across my soul, releasing the reserves of love and trust even I never guessed were held captive behind. He's made me _me_ in a way I never dreamed I could ever be.

The real Malcolm Reed? I never knew him before, but at last I do, and I like him much more than my schoolboy self would ever have believed.


End file.
